


Wings

by aloeverava



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Brief YamaTsukki, Demon/Angel AU, Kuroo is Literally the Devil, M/M, Reincarnation, Suicidal Ideation, kurotsukki - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25004977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloeverava/pseuds/aloeverava
Summary: In a world devoid of meaning to Tsukishima Kei, he begins to remember why he is alive one fateful night.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings are placed in the end notes to avoid spoilers. Please do check those if you feel you need to.
> 
> also,,,, sorry i did yamaguchi like that <3

_“There’s something oddly beautiful in knowing things happen when you don’t want them to.”_

_“But I want to know what happens. I hate uncertainty.”_

_The Devil smiles, all teeth and sinew and glistening saliva. Disgusting, Kei thinks faintly._

_“Is that so?” Tetsurou muses._

_The blond narrows his eyes, but doesn’t respond. The other steps closer, heat radiating off of him like a furnace. He takes one pointed nail and trails it from Kei’s temple down to his sternum. Beads of blood slowly form along the line, forming a perfect trail of crimson against the smooth marble-like surface. Tetsurou licks his lips._

_There is a reason this man rules over Hell._

_The Devil laughs, just a small rumble of his shoulders, as he listens to the_ thump, thump _of the heart inside the man underneath him. So_ delicate _._

_There is one thing that separates the angels and mortals from Hell’s creatures: the beating of a live, ever-pumping heart. Kei’s betrays him._

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

_“Not knowing is your greatest fear, then?”_

_“What else could be?”_

_“Omniscience. It traps you.”_

_Kei gives him a strange look before scoffing. “Fine, you win. What do you want, a prize?”_

_And there’s that smile again, the one that narrows his eyes into glowing slits and makes every tooth in his mouth gleam. The one that drew Kei into him and shackled his limbs in place._

_“No, my dear Kei. But I think I know what you want.”_

_He decides to humor Tetsurou. “And what’s that?”_

_“Freedom.”_

* * *

_Beep, beep—_

Tsukishima’s hand lands in the general vicinity of his alarm clock.

— _beep, BEEP, BEEP—_

The offending noise finally stops when Tsukishima’s hand finds purchase on its hard plastic surface. He turns onto his back, looking up at the ceiling. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to wake up—no, his eyes are already open, have _been_ open for hours now, actually.

It’s that he doesn’t want to get out to bed, go about another monotonous day, then come back here only to sleep. Again.

What was the point?

He asks himself this question repeatedly as he heaves himself up, gets dressed, brushes his teeth, prepares, and then burns, himself a piece of toast. He then pulls out of his driveway, rubber screeching against the pavement because he never learned how to properly drive a stick shift.

Tsukishima drums his fingers against the wheel, absently tapping out a rhythm while the car radio crackles softly with static. It had broken long ago and he hadn’t found a reason to replace it. If anything, the broken player was just another reason to add onto his list.

… His list.

His list of Reasons I Shouldn’t Bother Living Anymore is quite long, now that he thinks about it.

For one, of course, the car radio. There’s also the fact that he’s about to finish both his shampoo and conditioner bottles at the same time, the fact that his career is going nowhere, and the fact that he’s supposed to propose to a man he doesn’t love, because what else did he have going for himself?

The list is much, much, more extensive, and he finds himself tacking things onto it every other time he runs into a minor inconvenience nowadays. Those are his top selling points right now, though, so he runs these on repeat in his mind without music to keep himself preoccupied.

Drawing closer to a red light, he watches the traffic running perpendicularly race past him in a blur. If he just pressed on the gas, it would be over just like—

But that could potentially injure, even take another’s life. He wouldn’t take someone else down with him in his own misery. That would somehow prove the universe right, that he and his beige life and his beige emotions were bound for wrongdoing.

He supposes that’s why he’s agreed to propose to Yamaguchi as he brings the car to a stop in front of the intersection.

Tsukishima could make one person happy, even if he himself wasn’t. Frankly, he doesn’t care, but he feels like he should. His life had no meaning, not since—

Since when? Since when, besides his infantry, did he give a damn about anything in this world? Maybe, once upon a time, when he had let the fantasy of a family and children with Yamaguchi dance around his head. Maybe it was when he joined the volleyball club in middle school and felt the accomplishment of making the starting rotation.

But that was where it ended. Apart from silly childhood memories, all there is in Tsukishima’s memories is grey, endless, apathy.

He sighs, watching the smog from an eighteen-wheeler billow up into the air. It joins the rest of the atmosphere, which is littered with pollutants, Yet somehow it retains its blue color.

Tsukishima wonders if he looks the same: gray and clouded and monotonous on the inside, but the image of a content man on the outside.

The car behind him honks; the light is green. He flips his finger at the driver out the window and decides that no, he is far from the image of happiness.

The thought is laughable.

* * *

The day carries on as usual: Work. Lunch break, which he spends out on the balcony, smoking alone. Work. Go home. Change. Shower, maybe jack off. Then it’s back to bed.

He sets the timer on the TV to thirty minutes, like always. He knows he’ll still be awake by the time the thirty minutes is done with, but he doesn’t want to pay too much for electricity.

It’ll be the same routine of lying awake until midnight, falling asleep for a couple hours at most, then being awoken by the _list._

The list cycles over and over and over in his head until the wee hours of the morning, when the alarm clock sounds to let him know that his day has been reset. It taunts him, asking him why he’s being such a fucking _coward._

Although the list’s intrusivity is relentless, the TV offers reprieve. He listens to the reporters drone on about who murdered who and what celebrity fucked who. Tsukishima couldn’t give two shits, but he likes to keep himself educated, just so he has context for whenever he decides to eavesdrop on the water cooler talk at work.

There’s really no point to it, he thinks, staring blankly at the screen.

His eyes begin to water from keeping them open for so long, so he takes off his glasses and sets them in his lap to rub at his eyes. When he opens them, the news catches his attention for once.

_“Three mysterious disappearances have been reported around the Karasuno District in the last week. The public has been on edge ever since the kidnappings of three males in their mid-20s, each of them of similar height and appearance.”_

The screen changes to three pictures of smiling men, and the sight sends a chill down Tsukishima’s spine. They’re all his own face. At least, that’s what he thinks before he shoves his glasses back on his face. Blinking in bewilderment, he realizes that his three doppelgangers haven’t been kidnapped. Also, he realizes he doesn’t have three doppelgangers.

The men are all eerily similar to himself, though—pale yellow hair cropped short, the same shade as his, and a slight yet tall frame. In each of their photos, they are smiling, looking like meaningful, innocent members of society who would be missed. One of them is pictured with a woman, another with a child. The third is clearly cropped out of a group photo, but the sentiment rings true nonetheless: they all mattered.

They were all an important piece of being to _someone,_ somewhere, at some point. And now they’d all been plucked from their lives, taken by a serial kidnapper because they fit his type.

Tsukishima listens with rapt attention as the reporter describes the man to be of a tall, lean build, wild black hair, and “handsome” features. He raises an eyebrow at that one. Was the news really glamorizing criminals now?

The rest of the news segments ends with a warning to the public to stay on the lookout, report any suspicious activity to crime-stoppers, blah, blah, blah. Tsukishima snorts, thinking about how convenient things would be if this supposed serial kidnapped were a serial murderer.

 _“Hey, I’m your type! Come murder me!”_ He snorts at himself, then feels stupid for doing so.

Tsukishima’s eyes glaze over once more as they gaze unseeingly at the pixels on the television screen. His mind returns to its safe spot of reasons not to live, but this time there’s a twist. He goes a step further as to how he would do it, if it would be pills or a knife or maybe that fictional serial murderer.

And with that, his eyes slip shut, coaxing him into yet another bout of dreamless short-lived sleep.

Or so he thinks.

* * *

_“Do you know how hard I’ve looked for you?”_

_The glint of steel, the warm breath of someone whispering into his ear from behind._

Who are you? _For some reason, he doesn’t speak the words. But all the same, the man seems to understand him loud and clear._

 _He throws his head back and laughs, mouth stretching impossibly wide to reveal an impossibly endless series of razor-sharp teeth._ I should fear him, _Tsukishima thinks._ Why am I not afraid?

_Again, the man seems to hear everything going on in his head._

_“Oh, I’d be rather disappointed if you were afraid of me, darling,” he coos._

_A hand comes to hover just inches in front of his chest, which, he’s only now realizing, is bare. The skin glistens with sweat, almost seeming to shine, though there is no light to be reflected._

_The man stares at the space between their flesh, almost as if daring himself to touch._

What are you waiting for?

_“You tell me, Kei.”_

* * *

For the first time in months, Tsukishima wakes up to the sound of his alarm.

He sits up, flailing out an arm to silence the shrill noise. Only when he gets it to be quiet does he notice that he’s panting. What the hell had he dreamed about that it made him sleep through the night?

Maybe he hadn’t dreamt?

_Laughter, a breath against his ear, a hand._

He squeezes his eyes shut once, trying to rid himself of an oncoming headache. No, there’d definitely been a dream. What it was about, he couldn’t remember. But he wouldn’t give himself the luxury of sitting in bed and overthinking something so trivial. _What’s the point? If you don’t go to work and input those numbers, what will change?_ _  
_ Tsukishima forces himself to get up, working through the same routine.

Before he knows it, he’s on lunch break, smoking cheap cigarettes on the roof.

He doesn’t know why he smokes, exactly. Maybe he thinks the idea of shaving years off of his life is appealing, or that it makes him look cool. It was most likely the latter when he’d started back in high school.

Suddenly, the smoke catches in his throat, making him choke and hack up a horrendously embarrassing noise. He waves off the concerned looks from a group of coworkers also on the roof, giving them a grimace and a thumbs up. They only look at him even more strangely in return. God, he really needed to work on his social skills.

He stamps out the offending stick with the heel of his shoe, not bothering with the ashtray. What had caused that? In his two and a half years of smoke breaks, never once had his lungs rejected a hit like he was some middle schooler smoking for the first time under a stairwell.

 _Whatever,_ he decides. These things were really eating up his paycheck, anyways. Between bills, student debt, and the damn ring, he could benefit from cutting back on a habit or two.

It wasn’t like it mattered, anyway.

* * *

“Tsukki, I thought we agreed to at least three calls per week!”

To anyone else, this would look like an unhealthy relationship. Tsukishima avoiding his long-term boyfriend, making him schedule times to talk and hang out with him, and Yamaguchi all but begging Tsukishima to propose—all of these things pointed to _unhealthy._

And that’s because it _was_ an unhealthy relationship, in every sense of the word.

Tsukishima just couldn’t bring himself to let down the poor boy, though. Not that he cared for Yamaguchi’s feelings, but because it was just too much effort.

“Yam—”

“Tadashi,” the other immediately corrects. The blond pinches the bridge of his nose. Why did he so badly want to hang up if he didn’t have anything else to do?

“ _Tadashi,_ ” he revises. “I was going to call you.” Lie.

“Oh, I know! I just missed you, baby,” comes his reply. Tsukishima wrinkles his nose at the sound of his other nickname. Somehow, it was worse than “Tsukki.”

He takes a deep breath, allowing himself one moment of _Why, God, why?!_ Before delivering his line.

“Babe, let’s go out to dinner this weekend.”

“Sure! Ooh, where are you taking me? Is it a surprise? What’s the occa—”

“Gotta go.”

“Wai—”

“I'll text you the details. Love you.” He hangs up.

* * *

Tsukishima finds it in himself to be a little ashamed of getting the cheapest ring there is. It’s justified by the fact that he works a pathetic excuse for minimum wage and that, frankly, Yamaguchi would be over the moon if Tsukishima gave him so much as a fucking ring pop.

He pulls up to Yamaguchi’s apartment complex at exactly six o'clock sharp. He may have been a shitty boyfriend, but he was never late.

It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be anyways.

Without even needing to honk—yes, he was the asshole who honked when he was picking up his boyfriend—Yamaguchi comes bounding down the stairs and through the rusted gate.

“Hi, Tsukki!” The man beams. He’s wearing a simple button-down, slacks, and a relaxed blazer on top of it. It was his style that first drew him to Yamaguchi, but after years of having known each other, he realized he really just recycled the same few pieces of his wardrobe. Then again, Tsukishima couldn’t say much. He was just as bad, if not worse with his four pairs of identical pants and various solid colored shirts.

“Hey.”

“Sooo, where are we going?” Tsukishima pretends to be focused on pulling out of the parking lot so that he can take a moment to answer.

“You’ll see.”

For the rest of the trip to the restaurant, their banter continues in the familiar manner that it always has. Yamaguchi rattles his ear off with not-so-subtle hints by gushing about what kind of flowers he’d have at his wedding, how he’s always dreamed of having a huge one with tons of people, and how he’s already been thinking of baby names.

Tsukishima bites back several mean remarks about how neither of them could ever save up enough money to even come close to affording one of his fantasies, gritting his teeth in annoyance throughout the entire car ride. The small velvet box grows heavier and heavier in his pocket, the ring starting to seem more like a death sentence than an “eternal promise.” (Or whatever it is Yamaguchi had called it.)

They pull into the parking lot of a Chinese buffet. To his credit, Yamaguchi’s face doesn’t falter, but Tsukishima knows him well enough to notice that he’s disappointed. Was he being a dick? Yes. But was Yamaguchi still head over heels for him _somehow_? Also yes.

“...Sorry,” Tsukishima says, because the car has gone silent for a moment.

“Oh no, no, it’s okay! It’s not like it’s a special occasion or anything! I love this place! They have the best…”

And now Tsukishima can rest easy because he can tell Yamaguchi’s excited self is back.

They find a table far from the buffet because Tsukishima hates the smell. His boyfriend giggles, saying something about how their recessed spot is “romantic.”

Tsukishima is halfway through his third chicken wing—he can’t really muster up the appetite for anything more—when he can’t take Yamaguchi’s rambling anymore.

“I have a question to ask you.”

Wow, he’s never seen someone’s face light up brighter. It kind of hurts his eyes. “Yeah, Tsukki?” He hastily wipes his hands and mouth with a napkin, sitting up straighter.

And now Tsukishima is on one knee and the people around them are whispering and pointing with poorly hidden smiles. He wishes he could feel just an ounce of their excitement.

“Yamaguchi Tadashi, will you—”

“Yes! Yes, yes, a thousand times _yes,_ ” he sobs.

Tsukishima smiles as he slides the ring onto his new fiancee’s finger, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you get engaged.

The people around the clap, some whooping in excitement. Ironic, wasn’t it, that they were more happy for a couple of strangers than Tsukishima had ever been in his entire life?

As soon as Tsukishima stands, Yamaguchi pulls him into a kiss, which isn’t, admittedly, entirely unenjoyable. He was a good kisser, he’d give him that. But that’s where his attraction to the man started and ended.

Tsukishima pays for the two of them even though Yamaguchi “insists” on splitting the bill, and they leave the restaurant, “congratulations” following them out the door. They smile and nod, one much more earnestly than the other, at the strangers’ joyful remarks.

The car ride is quieter than usual, Yamaguchi lost in his admiration of the ring. Vaguely, Tsukishima wonders if he was supposed to get himself one too. Not that his fiance would care.

“Tsukki, this is beautiful! You must have spent a fortune on this,” Yamaguchi gushes.

“Anything for you,” is what he replies with. It’s what he’s supposed to reply with.

As he slows the car to a stop in front of the red light, Yamaguchi’s hand snakes its way onto his thigh.

“Y’know, I should really pay you back for this,” he grins in what’s supposed to be a seductive manner. Tsukishima holds back a cringe.

“Sure.”

The other man giggles—fucking _giggles—_ and lets his fingers travel to the zipper of his pants. The blond’s eyes widen in response, once hand shoving Yamaguchi’s beseeching hand away.

“I— Yamaguchi, not here! Jesus christ,” he says, placing both hands back onto the wheel. He turns the wheel—shit, had he turned his blinkers whilst trying to stop Yamaguchi’s advances?

“Baby,” He whines as the car turns into the intersection. “Why not—”

Tsukishima slams on the brake, but by then it’s much too late.

Maybe it’s kind of hilarious that he dies this way—in a car with the man he just proposed to, who he failed to follow basic driving safety rules for in favor of swatting a wandering hand away.

Tsukishima realizes this is the very intersection he had pondered death at the other day on his way to work. If he could find it in himself, he’d laugh.

All he remembers is the sound. His glasses flew off at some point, making the world in front of him a blurry mess. Yamaguchi screams an incoherent mix of “help” and his name, there’s an ear-shattering crash of metal on metal, maybe the deafening crack of bone. Car horns. There are lots of those.

He doesn’t know if his eyes are closed or if he’s dead. Maybe it’s both.

_“Sir, can you hear me?”_

_“...two males, mid-20s, hit and run on Sakanoshita and 5th…”_

_“TSUKKI!”_

_Sirens._

_“...severe blood loss, gonna need a transfusion when we…”_

“I’ve been looking for you.”

_Tsukishima opens his eyes._

* * *

“You.” This time around, he can speak.

“Me.” The man from his dream grins, but this time his smile is more charming, less monstrous.

“Are you the Devil?”

“I hear that’s what they call me, yes,” he says casually, twirling a finger in the air. He is all sharp angles and clean cuts, a crimson suit and tie tenting in the places where his joints jut out. In the suit—no, in this space—he seems too confined. It’s as if he’s meant for something bigger, as if this very room, if you could call it that, isn’t worthy of his presence. As if Tsukishima isn’t worthy of his presence. It doesn’t stop his snarky attitude, though.

“So I’m going to Hell, I take it?”

“If you want.”

“If I want?”

“You have two options, darling.” The Devil lifts two fingers, a red flame igniting on each stiletto nail.

Frankly, Tsukishima couldn’t care less, but this is sort of interesting. Honestly, he’d expected to end up in purgatory or some shit for the afterlife. Not that he believed in it, anyways. This guy was probably a figment of his imagination, some coping mechanism for death that his brain had constructed.

“I can assure you that I’m very real, Kei.”

_So you can read my thoughts?_

“Of course I can. I’m in your head, silly.”

_If you’re in my head, how are you real?_

“Who said I couldn’t be both?” He flashes a smile, two pointed canines scraping past his bottom lip. They leave two neat slices in the flesh, which he licks up with a swipe of his tongue.

“Now, where was I? Two choices. You come back to my place, burn in Hell and eternal damnation, suffer. Pretty straightforward.”

_Okay, what’s the other choice?_

“You remember.”

_… Remember what?_

“Why, all your past lives, of course! Every single one you’ve lived before, every single aspect of every single one.”

_What happens to me then?_

“You become an angel.”

At this, Tsukishima raises an eyebrow. At least, he does so as well as he can in a liminal space where he’s unsure if he even has a physical form.

“Those two options are quite… Different.” This time he voices his words out loud, genuine surprise shocking the verbal response out of him.

“Mm, not really, no. So, what’ll it be?”

Tsukishima weighs his options. Neither sounds particularly appealing.

The man barks out a laugh. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard. “You don’t see that very often,” he muses. When he smiles, boring into Tsukishima’s soul—probably quite literally, he thinks—something flickers. A memory, a key struggling to fit into a keyhole, itching to be opened.

The Devil growls, as if sensing the tug in Tsukishima’s subconscious.

Tsukishima narrows his eyes. “Who are you?”

“The Devil,” he states simply.

 _No, who are you_ really?

“No one… and everyone. I’m you, but I’m also me. Make sense?”

_No._

“Too bad. Now, what’ll it be, Kei?” _On a first name basis with the Devil, now, was he?_

He chuckles. “Yes, I suppose you are.” Again, there’s that flicker of his vision, as if the fog in this space is clearing for a split second. If he strains, he can glimpse it again—  
“STOP THAT!” All of a sudden, the Devil is standing right over him, chest heaving, one hand twitching just inches from his throat. Heat, hotter than any fire Tsukishima has ever seen or felt, radiates from his skin. There’s an anguished, almost desperate look in his eyes as he towers over Tsukishima.

He’ll admit it—he’s scared shitless. Figment of his imagination or not, this man could probably rip his heart out with his pinky finger if he wanted to.

Finally, he steps back, straightening himself out and quickly regaining his composure.

“Kei, you’re messing with things you shouldn’t be.” A question dares to surface in Tsukishima’s mind, but he represses it for his own safety’s sake. Funny how he feared for his life more now that he was dead than when he was alive.

“Choose.”

... _I can’t._ Oh, well. It isn’t like he can put a filter over his own thoughts.

“You have to.”

_I don’t want to._

“Stubborn, just like always, I see.” _Just like always?_ “I suppose—”

“‘Just like always?’” Tsukishima questions, this time out loud, because those words get the key just a little further into the door, just one step closer to unlocking the dusty memory. The Devil hesitates. He looks away, as if fighting something within himself. Finally, tearing his gaze from a point past Tsukishima’s shoulder, he makes eye contact. And though it only lasts a few seconds, it _burns._

It seems that he isn’t the only one in pain, though, because the Devil’s eyes brim with tears as he speaks his next words.

“Kei, darling, don’t you remember?”

_TETSUROU—!_

_Tsukishima is fall, fall, falling down._

_When have I felt this way before?_

_The flap of wings, the rustle of the wind through his feathers. Ah, that’s better. He stretches his wings, letting them carry him above the world. They flap once, twice, and it feels so good to fly again—_

“Fall, sinner.”

_Tsukishima is fall, fall, falling down once more._

_It’s surreal, watching your wings float above you as you plummet to the ground. His halo is the only light source as he punctures the night sky, like a shooting star. Though he is steadily on his way to certain death, he can only think of one thing: Tetsurou._

_He is a collection of memories, memories he knows will be ripped away from him in a moment’s time. A moment’s time, which rushes by faster and faster as the visions of Tetsurou flash before his eyes, trying to play the supercut before time runs out._

_Hands that whisper fire and eyes that shine like the red moon._

_Oh. How could he forget?_

_“Tetsurou,” he cries. “I remember, I remember!”_

_He claws at the space around him, but his hands find no purpose._

_“TETSUROU!”_

* * *

“Tsukki! Tsukki, wake up! Baby, it’s just a nightmare!”

Tsukishima sits up, nearly concussing both him and his fiancee in the process. He’s breathing hard, the taste of Tetsurou’s name still fresh on his lips—so what is he doing here?

“Oh, baby,” Yamaguchi coos, a hand rubbing his back, which sticks to his t-shirt with sweat. He shrugs the gesture off, annoyed, but Yamaguchi doesn’t seem to take the hint anyway.

“I—”

“You’re still having nightmares from then, aren’t you? Oh, it must have been so scary, we’re so lucky they found you…” Yamaguchi says, nearing tears as he buries his face into Tsukishima’s neck.

“W-What do you mean?”

The freckled man pulls away to look up at him, his eyes shining. And then he bursts into a fit of tears.

“Y-You don’t remember! Of c-course, you don’t remember,” he hiccups.

“Yamaguchi, remember _what?”_ Tsukishima demands.

“You don’t even call me ‘Tadashi,’ anymore,” he sniffles. “Well, it’s probably best that you don’t remember something so traumatic, anyways.”

He’s about to ask him what the hell he means again when he hears his name on the TV, which has been softly playing in the background. He fumbles for his glasses before Yamaguchi hands them over to him, not bothering to mutter his thanks and all but lunging for the remote.

“Tsukki?”

He ignores Yamaguchi, feeling an eerie sense of deja vu wash over him as he turns up the volume. Shoving his glasses onto his face, his eyes widen at the sight.

It’s the same three men, the lookalike kidnapping victims. Only now, a fourth picture is placed next to them on screen. This one bears a little too much resemblance to himself.

No, wait, it can’t be—

“...and Tsukishima Kei, who was reunited with his fiancee. The suspect has yet to be apprehended, but police now have a surname: Kuroo. If you have any information, please call…”

The reporter’s words and Yamaguchi’s cries of concern meld into white noise, but one voice rings true in his ears.

_“Kei, darling, don’t you remember?”_

**Author's Note:**

> TW's: Suicidal ideation, car crash.
> 
> confused? *laughs in non-linear plot* good.
> 
> comments + kudos are appreciated!
> 
> find me on:  
> tumblr: hairbleachwhore  
> twitter: glutenfreeroach


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